


More full of visions than a high romance

by BeatnikFreak



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Enjolras doesn't do mornings, M/M, Sleepy Cuddles, Sleepy Sex, grantaire is a bit of a pervert at times
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-20
Updated: 2013-09-20
Packaged: 2017-12-27 02:34:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,930
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/973262
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BeatnikFreak/pseuds/BeatnikFreak
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes, Grantaire wants to paint Enjolras as he is in bed. This morning is no exception.</p>
            </blockquote>





	More full of visions than a high romance

**Author's Note:**

> I've seen a lot of stuff on tumblr about not a morning person!enjolras. This began as sleepy cuddles and became something a little different. 
> 
> I've never written this kind of thing for a M/M pairing, I do hope it's okay!
> 
> Salvation by Gabrielle Aplin played on repeat throughout the writing of this. 
> 
> Title from Sleep and Poetry. (Yes I have a problem, his name is John Keats.)

Enjolras was not a morning person. 

Grantaire had found this out long before they had started going out, at one of the famous movie night/sleepover conglomerates that would always end in their oddball group of friends sprawled asleep across someone's living room. He distinctly remembered that particular movie night, though, or, at least, the morning after. 

 

"Everyone up?" asked Combeferre, ruffling a hand through his mousy blond hair and yawning. 

There were vague noises of assent, and a pained grunt from Bahorel, who really was too big to sleep anywhere but the floor.  

However, one voice did remain silent. One that very rarely did remain silent. 

Courfeyrac's face took on an evil expression as he looked around, grinning widely. That grin never bode well for anyone. 

(Enjolras still had nightmares about the stripper. Never again.)

There was a moment of hushed quiet. Then someone's phone clicked as a photo was taken, and someone else (probably Jehan) cooed.  

There, fast asleep in the middle of his own living room, lay Enjolras. He'd bundled himself up tight in a blanket, like a revolutionary burrito, Grantaire thought idly. Hey, he'd never be a poet. His face was turned towards the group of friends standing near the kitchen door, the look of total peace on his features really quite astounding. 

And so, of course, Courf had to disrupt it. 

"Watch this," he whispered to Grantaire, before tiptoeing forward. Bending down, he brought his face very close to Enjolras' ear. 

"Eeeeeenjy," he crooned the hated nickname. "Eeeeenjy, time to wake up."

Enjolras didn't respond, merely rolling away from the sound. Joly stifled a laugh. 

"Come on Enjy," went on Courf, lightly poking the blond's side. 

Enjolras moaned and curled into a ball. He was more of a libertine cinnamon roll now, Grantaire considered. 

Courf looked up at his audience. "Desperate times," he grinned, before leaning down again. "NAPOLEON!" he hollered, right in his friend's ear. 

Enjolras jerked awake, one hand instinctively punching forward. Courf got smacked in the face, and toppled over. Beside him, the blond had bolted upright, still cocooned in his blanket, the imprint of the carpet visible on one cheek. 

Grantaire didn't know whether it was more adorable or funny. 

"Whasgoinon?" demanded Enjolras, eyes blazing, hair a mess. "Did someone say Napoleon?"

The laughter that ensued would have been enough to wake the dead, let alone Enjolras. 

Fifteen minutes later, Grantaire reached over to take the maple syrup from by Enjolras' plate. The revolutionary leader had emptied an ungodly amount of the stuff all over his pancakes, and was now proceeding to eat them moodily. 

"Hey, Enjolras." The blond looked up darkly. "That's quite a hairstyle you're wearing there." Grantaire grinned. "What do you call it? The almighty birdsnest?"

Enjolras glowered at him as the artist grinned ever wider, taking a bite of his pancakes. 

 

Things hadn't changed, not really, on that front. No matter how many other things had - for, seriously, Grantaire's life was very different to what it had been four years ago - this hadn't. Probably would never, to be honest. 

He found it pretty endearing, to be honest. Once you got used to occasionally being smacked in the face by Enjolras' open palm if you woke him up - seriously, what the fuck was up with that particular instinct - the sight of the glorious leader first thing in the morning really was adorable.  

Grantaire smiled as he felt his boyfriend stirring in his arms. He himself had been awake for a while, the sunlight streaming through the windows of their bedroom sufficient to wake him.  

He had been perfectly content to stay here with an armful of sleeping Enjolras. He was so much more peaceful when he was asleep; it was both astonishing and comforting. As much as Enjolras was a force of nature who never stopped moving, he did need to sleep sometimes.

When he did, he slept like the dead. Perhaps there was a link, Grantaire mused.  

He felt Enjolras nuzzling his face into his chest, and smiled at the sensation. "Morning, princess."

"Whutimeizit?" the sleeping beauty asked blearily, apparently not hearing the nickname.  

"About nine." 

"Mmphht," mumbled Enjolras into his chest, hands fisting behind Grantaire's back to drag him closer. "Too early."

"Says the man who gets up every day at seven, goes for a run and then proceeds to do the Guardian crossword while shouting at the news," Grantaire grinned as Enjolras  burrowed deeper into the sheets, making disgruntled noises.  

"S'different. It's Sunday." Grantaire felt a warm rush of air across his bare chest as the taller man harrumphed. 

"God, you're grumpy in the mornings," teased the dark haired man, bending his head to press a kiss to the top of Enjolras' golden head. He let out a happy sigh. 

"You still love me," came the mumbled response. Enjolras was much looser with his words when he was asleep, somehow returning to the innocence that underlay his persona of hope. 

Grantaire let Enjolras wake up slowly, appreciating this lie in and the chance it held to simply be with one another, to lie curled up in the sheets and in each other's warm limbs. 

Eventually, he was awake, reaching up to gently brush his lips against Grantaire's. "Morning," he said quietly, tightening his arms around his artist. Honestly, it was like dating a limpet. 

"Morning," Grantaire replied, kissing Enjolras again. The kiss was slow, and sleepy, a gentle movement in their haven of white sheets and pale skin.  

"Mmm," sighed Enjolras, when they broke apart, tangling one leg tighter around Grantaire's. "Why do we ever bother getting up?" He rested his cheek against Grantaire's collarbone. 

"Because you have to save the world," said Grantaire softly, kissing the top of his head. "And I have to paint so I don't become a starving artist in occupation as opposed to just looks." He tried to regulate his voice, but Enjolras had started pressing kisses to his chest.

"Saving the world can wait. As can the bills," said the blond, pushing at his boyfriend so he ended up flat on his back with an armful of blond activist on top of him.  

"Someone's woken up," commented Grantaire, leaning up to steal a brief kiss. Enjolras laughed, bed-mussed curls falling in his eyes.

"I want to paint you like this," Grantaire said without thinking, tracing one finger down the side of Enjolras' face. "Half awake and draped in the white bedsheets, your hair going everywhere..." 

"You and my bloody hair." Enjolras rolled his eyes, but there was fondness in his voice. "Painting can wait."

"Oh yeah?" Grantaire started to say, before his evil, evil boyfriend pressed his hips into his, and it cut off into a gasp.  

"Yes." The word was whispered into his ear, before a kiss slid down the side of his neck to where it met his shoulder.  

Enjolras shifted on top of him, a small smile on his face which abruptly fell away as he found the right spot, bodies aligning perfectly. God, how he looked like this, mouth slack, head tipped back, moving over Grantaire as if that were his only purpose in life, his only need. 

Grantaire lifted his hips up, rewarding him with a moan from Enjolras, whose eyes had already slid shut. 

The blond worked his hips forward, rocking against Grantaire, who met him, slow thrust for slow thrust, hands roaming up and down his perfect man's back. Enjolras buried his head in the crook of his neck, mouthing at the skin, mumbling nonsense that was mainly Grantaire's name, the babble serving only to push him higher, further, bucking against the blond. 

It was unhurried, luxuriant, a slow oscillation between their hips, synchronous movement bringing them closer together and closer to the edge. Grantaire felt more than heard Enjolras' hot breaths in his ear, a groan catching in his throat as their bodies slid together in just the right way, that maddening slipslide of skin that wasn't quite enough but was still marvellous, magnificent, utterly without parallel...

Enjolras' arms were beginning to shake on either side of Grantaire's chest, his breath coming raggedly, every other exhalation his name. Grantaire pushed up, flipping them over.  He took both of Enjolras' hands in his own and, pressing them against the bed, pushed his hips hard against those of his lover's. 

The sound that left Enjolras' lips was something he wanted to trumpet to the whole world and keep locked away all to himself, a broken cry that made his back arch against the white sheets, Apollo on cotton. 

Grantaire was close, nearly as close as Enjolras, whose hips seemed to be moving of their own accord as his head fell back against the pillows, pale throat exposed. He leant down and sucked at it, kissing at the blooming bruise, Enjolras' hitched moan vibrating under his lips. 

"Please," the blond mumbled, arching his back and turning his head to one side, eyes screwed shut in the morning sunlight. The sight of Enjolras so pure and so wrecked all at once was nearly enough to finish Grantaire off, but he let go of Enjolras' clenching fingers and fisted one hand around the pair of them. 

"C'mon," he panted, working his hand for them both, "c'mon, 'Jolras, come for me." 

Enjolras' hands scrabbled down his back, searching for purchase as he rutted up against Grantaire, the sensation so good he could swear he would die and wouldn't feel a thing, not now, not in this glorious moment of sheets and skin and sweat and Apollo on earth. 

Enjolras' back arched, head digging down into the pillow as he came with a soft cry. "R," he gasped, eyes flying open, nails scraping down his back and that was the end of it for Grantaire, his hips stuttering, a name wrenched from his lips as he fell forward. 

They lay like that for a moment, breathing heavily. 

"Fuck one painting," Grantaire breathed. "I'm making a whole damn collection."

Enjolras laughed, the sound much breathier and higher than normal, one hand flattening against the base of his artist's spine. They stayed like that a  while, waiting for the aftershocks to subside, their breathing to regulate.

Then Enjolras reached a shaky hand up to push a damp curl off Grantaire's forehead.

"Nice way to start the day," he commented lightly. 

"Mmmmmm," replied Enjolras, eyes already sliding shut, arms tightening across Grantaire's back. He sighed happily. 

"Uhuh, no way," said Grantaire, shaking his head. "As much as I love cuddling with you -" Enjolras' eyes snapped open, glaring. "Don't look at me in that tone of voice, you are the biggest cuddler I have ever been limpet-ed by."

Enjolras humphed. 

"Don't worry, I'm not going to ruin your street cred by telling everyone their favourite fearsome revolutionary is secretly a massive teddy bear." 

"You'd better not."

That threat might have held some weight if Enjolras hadn't yawned midway through it. 

"I won't. Anyway, come on - as much as I love you, I'm not cuddling in a puddle of come." He crawled backwards, jumping off the bed. 

Enjolras grimaced, propping himself up on his elbows. "You are disgusting, do you know that?"

Grantaire bowed. "With such frequent reminders, how could I forget? C'mon, shower time."

Enjolras rolled his eyes, but let Grantaire pull him up and onto his feet, before leading him to the bathroom. 

"You never know, I might find something to add to the painting collection," smirked the artist as he pushed open the door.

"You are a fucking pervert, you know that?"

"You wouldn't have me any other way, darling."


End file.
